My throat tightened. “Scott, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying leave my house. I owned it before we married. It’s in my name. You get nothing. Divorce papers will be on the counter. Sign them and this stays simple.”
A woman’s voice echoed faintly behind him. Close. Comfortable. Then his quiet laugh.
“We’re married,” I whispered. “This is our home.”
“You’re free now,” he cut in. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
The line went dead.
I walked back into the meeting room in a daze, muttered something about an emergency, grabbed my bag, and drove home on autopilot. My hands shook on the steering wheel, not from fear of being alone, but from the sudden, sick clarity that I had been living next to a stranger who’d been waiting for a reason to stop pretending.
Outside, everything looked the same—the fence I painted, the flowers I planted, the porch swing we used on quiet Sundays. But inside, it felt hollow. His gaming console was gone. Our honeymoon photos had disappeared. His closet stood bare.
On the kitchen counter was a stack of legal documents—eight years reduced to cold paragraphs. Beside them, a note.
Put it here. No drama.
I sat down slowly. Then I pulled a shoebox from behind my winter coats. Inside were receipts—restaurants, hotels, jewelry stores. Six months’ worth. Places I’d never been.
One name appeared over and over.
Kayla Jensen.
That evening, at the grocery store with my best friend Relle, I saw them. Laughing. Relaxed. Bottles of expensive wine in their cart. Prime steaks. Her hand resting on his arm like she’d always belonged there.
Scott glanced at me once—then looked away as if I were a stranger.
